Who was reading: A middle-aged man with thick lips pursed into a sausage-y frown. His heavy blonde eyebrows were a little too neat to be described as flyaway—more flyaway in the sense that a turkey “flies away”: There’s a great deal of noise and plenty of ruffled feathers but very little actual flying.
Out of Africa, Into the Wild Blue Yonder: Going Solo chronicles Dahl’s own adventures in Africa as an Oil Man, and in the sky as a pilot in the Royal Airforce. It’s a continuation of Boy, which was mainly about deadly Mamba snakes.
When it comes to Roald Dahl... It’s nearly impossible to agree on a favorite book, but it’s safe to assume that nobody chooses Going Solo. Not that it’s not well-written and all, it’s just... given the choice between a sequel to a memoir and something like Matilda, what would you choose?
In conclusion: Roald Dahl is pretty much the funniest author ever. He also came up with more ideas for candy than a stoner at a Hershey Food Corp. product development meeting. So what if he was slightly more bitter in person than the sweet, sweet candy stuck to every page of the Charlie Bucket books? He’s still my children’s book idol. So there.